"Sorry. He's...he's a good guy, then?"
"Great guy," Jerry said, "Frighteningly smart, personable, articulate...well, a tad glib, really, but not pedantic about it. Completely trustworthy. Only thing negative I can say about him is that he wasn't properly Northwest laid-back and complacent. Too much ambition. He always wanted to see the world - like we don't have enough world to nose around in right here - so the London job was a slam dunk, especially at what they offered. They're small but any paper company on earth would love to have their bottom line."
We talked for a few more minutes about Hooks and then about stuff for another fifteen. We made plans to get together at his place when I returned from Spokane and I hung up just as I pulled into long-term parking.
At eight the next morning, I was sitting in Art's cushy conference room with a fresh latté and a blueberry muffin, bleary-eyed but somewhat functional.
"I told my guy you were coming over and he flew out here last night," Art said with no preamble as he swept into the room, trailing a wake of associates and law clerks.
"Mornin', Art," I yawned.
"Morning', Tru," he grinned. "Did Lauren get you coffee?"
"Some impossibly beautiful young woman brought me this latté and a blueberry muffin," I chuckled. "I'm trying to figure out what to do with them right now."
"You'll handle it," Art smiled. "Let me introduce you."
Art named everybody in the room, quickly enough that I gave up trying to sort them out by the third name. Lauren was sorta hard to forget, so I smiled feebly at her and figured to learn the rest later.
"Art," I managed.
"Yo?"
"Since I'm about to meet him, anyway," I asked, "do you think I could have something to call him other than 'my guy'?"
That drew a chuckle from Art and a couple of the associates. The clerks managed small, constipated smiles.
"Sorry, Tru," Art said, shaking his head. "Lawyers, huh? His name is Jack Bartinelli. He's from Silver Spring, Maryland, and he owns a company called Synchronous Systems."
"Huh," I murmured. "Sounds like a software company."
"It is," Art nodded, handing a sheaf of papers to one of the clerks, who began circulating them around the room. "He runs Syn/Sys—the trade name—as a sort of mini-conglomerate. Has four divisions, annual gross revenues about a billion Somolians, 180 on staff. There's the software division and the development division, both tremendously profitable, the web-hosting division, which is under-performing a tad and may wind up being sold, and what Jack calls the projects division, which spearheads public service stuff like restoration of historic buildings, helping hunger and homelessness charities get off the ground, and funding for medical research."
"Three hands raking it in, one passing it out," I nodded.
"He can afford it," Art smiled. "He's a sole proprietor."
"You're kidding," I snorted.
"Nope," Art replied. "Gets eat up in personal taxes but he doesn't care. I think you'll like him, Tru. He's hard-headed, impulsive, and persistent as jock itch. Your kinda guy."
"Talkin' about me again, Arthur?" came a voice from the doorway.
Jack Bartinelli was as different from my mental image of him as scotch is from soda pop.
I had pictured this short, stocky, balding guy with slicked-back hair, a three-piece Armani suit, and Bruno Magli loafers, about 60 and oozing greasy charm.
What I got was a sandy-haired 45, in full Eddie Bauer turnout, about my height, with a physique that bespoke serious gym time and one of those rare, unforced smiles that makes it seem as if he's truly delighted to be here—wherever "here" might be.
He had brown eyes with laugh lines and was clearly the focus of every woman in the room.
"All I heard was 'jock itch,''" Jack chuckled. "I'd love to hear the rest of that one."
"'Hard-headed, impulsive, and persistent as jock itch,' I
"Great guy," Jerry said, "Frighteningly smart, personable, articulate...well, a tad glib, really, but not pedantic about it. Completely trustworthy. Only thing negative I can say about him is that he wasn't properly Northwest laid-back and complacent. Too much ambition. He always wanted to see the world - like we don't have enough world to nose around in right here - so the London job was a slam dunk, especially at what they offered. They're small but any paper company on earth would love to have their bottom line."
We talked for a few more minutes about Hooks and then about stuff for another fifteen. We made plans to get together at his place when I returned from Spokane and I hung up just as I pulled into long-term parking.
At eight the next morning, I was sitting in Art's cushy conference room with a fresh latté and a blueberry muffin, bleary-eyed but somewhat functional.
"I told my guy you were coming over and he flew out here last night," Art said with no preamble as he swept into the room, trailing a wake of associates and law clerks.
"Mornin', Art," I yawned.
"Morning', Tru," he grinned. "Did Lauren get you coffee?"
"Some impossibly beautiful young woman brought me this latté and a blueberry muffin," I chuckled. "I'm trying to figure out what to do with them right now."
"You'll handle it," Art smiled. "Let me introduce you."
Art named everybody in the room, quickly enough that I gave up trying to sort them out by the third name. Lauren was sorta hard to forget, so I smiled feebly at her and figured to learn the rest later.
"Art," I managed.
"Yo?"
"Since I'm about to meet him, anyway," I asked, "do you think I could have something to call him other than 'my guy'?"
That drew a chuckle from Art and a couple of the associates. The clerks managed small, constipated smiles.
"Sorry, Tru," Art said, shaking his head. "Lawyers, huh? His name is Jack Bartinelli. He's from Silver Spring, Maryland, and he owns a company called Synchronous Systems."
"Huh," I murmured. "Sounds like a software company."
"It is," Art nodded, handing a sheaf of papers to one of the clerks, who began circulating them around the room. "He runs Syn/Sys—the trade name—as a sort of mini-conglomerate. Has four divisions, annual gross revenues about a billion Somolians, 180 on staff. There's the software division and the development division, both tremendously profitable, the web-hosting division, which is under-performing a tad and may wind up being sold, and what Jack calls the projects division, which spearheads public service stuff like restoration of historic buildings, helping hunger and homelessness charities get off the ground, and funding for medical research."
"Three hands raking it in, one passing it out," I nodded.
"He can afford it," Art smiled. "He's a sole proprietor."
"You're kidding," I snorted.
"Nope," Art replied. "Gets eat up in personal taxes but he doesn't care. I think you'll like him, Tru. He's hard-headed, impulsive, and persistent as jock itch. Your kinda guy."
"Talkin' about me again, Arthur?" came a voice from the doorway.
Jack Bartinelli was as different from my mental image of him as scotch is from soda pop.
I had pictured this short, stocky, balding guy with slicked-back hair, a three-piece Armani suit, and Bruno Magli loafers, about 60 and oozing greasy charm.
What I got was a sandy-haired 45, in full Eddie Bauer turnout, about my height, with a physique that bespoke serious gym time and one of those rare, unforced smiles that makes it seem as if he's truly delighted to be here—wherever "here" might be.
He had brown eyes with laugh lines and was clearly the focus of every woman in the room.
"All I heard was 'jock itch,''" Jack chuckled. "I'd love to hear the rest of that one."
"'Hard-headed, impulsive, and persistent as jock itch,' I
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